


Revenge, And A Little More

by OkayAristotle



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Childhood Trauma, Damian Wayne Needs a Hug, Dissociation, Gen, Good Parent Slade Wilson, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Psychological Trauma, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:40:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28002546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OkayAristotle/pseuds/OkayAristotle
Summary: Damian searches out the services of a mercenary. Things do not go to plan.
Relationships: Damian Wayne & Slade Wilson
Comments: 10
Kudos: 122





	Revenge, And A Little More

**Author's Note:**

> Like, look at the tags and really decide if this is for you. I would not call this a dark fic, but it is heavy, and considers things from the point of view of a heavily traumatised thirteen year old in the direct aftermath of even more trauma. 
> 
> If you were a fan of City of Bane, this fic also might not be for you. Me and Damian are both mad at Bane and Bruce. 
> 
> On to the angst.

It was a cold night in Gotham. Most nights were, he'd found, in the last three years. Nearly four. Four long, tumultuous years. 

That first night felt so distant. A different Damian, in a different Gotham. A Damian who could, perhaps, withstand this. Hold the loss in his hands and crush it, discard it — attachments were temporary, loyalty was what _mattered._

That Damian could withstand this. 

And Damian now, he felt cold, too. The air outside and the air inside his lungs was the same, frigid and biting. The pollution of a Gotham street was the same inside of him, black and thick like tar. 

Oily and so difficult to scrub out. He'd tried. He had _tried._ Pennyworth always— 

He always knew the best method for scrubbing out a stain, even those of the inside kind. Hot black tea, or chamomile if it was late. A quick word of wisdom in the early hours, or a rebuff when it was warranted. 

Peroxide and baking soda, for the outside kind. 

He itches to remove the mask. Peel it off and be _done._ And he can't— 

There are things he needs to do. Things he knows with a cold certainty he must do, whether the family will agree with him or not. Whether they will like him after or not, that is another matter. 

Things he knows Pennyworth would not— 

He would not want these things for Damian. But he wants them all the same. To put Bane in the ground. To _break him,_ as he broke Damian. 

_That_ feels like the Damian of before. The Damian he wished he could be, just for a moment, if only to stop feeling the cold.

On the ledge of Gotham National Bank, Robin sways, letting the wind rifle through his cape, twining through his laces. In his hair, and between his chapped lips. He'd almost call it quiet tonight, if it wasn't in the sort of way a crime scene is quiet after the fact. 

Violence can be so loud, sometimes. Death, even more so. 

Deathstroke, however, can be truly quiet. Slipping in and out of Gotham like a stray cat, coming and going as he pleases. Taking what he wants, when he wants, before he disappears again. Most likely to take more food from the neighbours, but that's beside the point. 

Deathstroke is quiet, but he's hardly invisible. Orange tends to stick out in the shadows, especially when it's six foot and some change. Damian follows where he goes, tipping off the ledge of the bank with a sense of calm. 

If there's anyone he can count on to not turn him away, it's this man. Won't talk him out of it, the way Grayson might — if he could, if he _knew_ — and even Todd might _try,_ half-hearted as it might be. And his father— 

He doesn't want to speak to his father. He knows the answer already. The look he might give him, pinning like a knife to a butterfly. Cold steel that would cut through him, slice him open in ways that Damian _cannot_ handle. 

If he goes to father, and he is sliced up by his words and his stares, he might waver. He might _give up._ And he can't. That is not an option. 

So he follows, and follows, and after an hour and a half of following it becomes clear that Deathstroke is simply leading him around Gotham. Damian grits his teeth, splits off when the opportunity arises, and pretty soon it's the other way around. 

Much like a stray cat, Slade can never quite curb his curiosity. 

It ends in an alley, not too far from downtown Gotham. At one end, a leaking gutter, and at the other, Slade. Damian doesn't feel cornered in the sense that he's in danger. He feels cornered like an animal, all teeth and claws. 

"I have a contract." He says. The words are cold, but they feel good. Weighted. 

Slade shifts. "Is that so." With one hand, he pulls his sword free. The other, he sets on his holster. "I don't work for pocket money." 

Damian bares his teeth. "You'll never need to work another day in your life." 

"Already don't need to." He replies lightly. Turns the sword over in his palm, never quite hitting the narrow brick walls. 

"If you like the work so much, you won't turn me down." He fights the urge to grab any number of weapons. It tends to be that way, with Slade. None of their encounters have ended without some form of violence. 

"And risk _him?"_ He asks, head cocked sharply. 

"We both know you'd love a chance to irritate my father." Not that it matters. It won't be _Slade_ who gets his ire, once it's done. 

(He's not sure what would be worse. The full battery of his father's displeasure, or perhaps none at all. Damian, a stranger now, unrecognisable as his son.) 

"Maybe." Slade agrees. "What's the deal?" He rests the tip of his sword to the ground, leaning into it slightly. 

Damian shifts on his boots, bites the tip of his tongue for a long moment. "I want to kill Bane. I need your skills." 

There. 

Finally, he's said it. Out loud. A promise. A _certainty._ All at once, he feels lighter, calmer than he has in weeks. Settled. 

Pretty soon, he'll be at peace. And Pennyworth will be, too. 

And Bane will _not_ be. He will be rotting. No burial for the monster, no eulogy. Nobody to remember him fondly. And that will be worth the mark on Damian's soul. It _will._

Slade sheaths his sword. _Good._ And then he reaches up to peel off his mask, shaking his hair out with a weary sigh. "Kid, no." 

If he thought his father's rebuff would be cold like steel, then this is— this is acid. This is watching his one and only plan fall apart with two simple, infuriating words. 

"I'm starting to remember why I locked you up." He breathes, can't speak above that level for a long minute. All he can do is inhale, taste the cold and sewer-stench of the alley. Exhale all the oily, black _filth_ inside of him, eating him _alive._

"Didn't go so well for either of us, if I remember right." Slade throws back, his voice muted. Singular, sharp eye narrowed, nearly looking right through Damian. "Where's your father?" 

"What does that matter." He doesn't know. Doesn't know where _any_ of them are, besides Grayson. 

"You don't know." 

"Perhaps he is having another vacation." Damian spits, surprised by the venom that leaks out along the words. "Take the contract." He insists. 

"No," he repeats, firm. Takes his hand from his holster to cross his arms, and all of a sudden it feels less like being cornered and more like interrogated. "I'm not killing anybody for _you,_ kid." 

"Then I will do it myself." 

"And get yourself killed in the process? Like hell." He snaps. Which is rather _silly,_ given who — and what — Deathstroke is. If there is anyone without a leg to stand on here, it's him. 

Slade's always been a killer. Damian, at least, has changed. Or, rather, thought he had. 

Now, he's far less sure. 

"I will do it with or without you." He snarls. Reaches into his belt for something sharp and deadly to throw at Slade's indifferent face. "And here I thought you were _for hire."_

"Not for that." He shrugs a shoulder. "He might deserve it, but I'm not in the business of turning kids into killers." 

"I am already one." Damian snaps. Tightens his grip on his shuriken. Pain pricks through his gloves, little hot points in his skin, driving out the cold. "We are done here." 

"No, we're not." Slade says simply. Shifts a little closer, into Damian's space. He towers for a moment, and then rocks on his heels. "Why do you want him dead so bad?" 

Damian fists the shuriken a little tighter. A little more pain. Dull in comparison to the words that want to pour out of him, sharp as knives. "He—" A sharp inhale. "He _murdered_ my—" Exhale. Slade's eye, spearing through him. "Penny-One is dead." 

Lifeless, the words hang in the alley like a cold corpse. 

Slade's face scrunches, eyebrows tugged together. Teeth clenched, single eye flickering all over Damian, searching. 

"Kid." He says, like a damn broken record. "What the hell are you doing?" 

He bares his teeth. Straightens his shoulders. "Doing what my father won't. What nobody else _cares to."_ Of all people, he'd have thought Todd would be with him on this. Right there with him. 

But he isn't. He's _elsewhere._ Left Gotham, and Pennyworth, and— 

Damian is alone in this. He can see it, staring back at Slade's pale eye. No help from his father, none to be found here. And the road to Bane will be long, destructive. It will most likely destroy him. At the end of it, he'll die. Maybe then, he'll feel a little more than _cold._

He'd been so stupid. Childish, to think anyone would work with him on this. Immature when he— 

He'd not listened, thought himself capable. And Pennyworth had paid the price for it. Yet again, death followed the two of them. First Damian, and now _him,_ and this was… unbearable. He had to do something. Had to— 

It was his fault, and he'd make it right, even if it killed him. 

"Okay." Slade murmurs. Licks his bottom lip and unsheathes his sword. "Okay, listen, kid." He flips it, holds the blade deftly. "Sorry about this." And then he hits Damian over the head with the hilt. 

* * *

He wakes tied to a chair. How cliché. 

Slade sits opposite him, straddling his own chair. Simple wooden chairs, part of a dining table set. Damian grunts, blinks to clear the haze, the thumping in his skull. 

His mask is gone. His shuriken is gone. Pennyworth is gone.

Damian swallows tensely. His mouth tastes stale, and his stomach rolls with acid. He'd eaten nothing but protein bars before patrol, nobody there to prepare food, and the cereal he'd eaten that morning wasn't enough. And then he'd been knocked on the head. 

Out for who knows how long. _Taken somewhere_ by Deathstroke. This was not the plan. 

He should have been a few million poorer, with a mercenary on his payroll. That was the plan. Not this. Tied to a simple chair, sans protection, said mercenary looking at him like a puzzle. 

"Morning, sunshine." He says flatly. "Sleep well?" 

"Untie me." Damian spits back, the world spinning briefly. 

Dimly, he notes that Slade is right. It is morning. The last he saw, the moon was high and Gotham was quiet. Now, sunlight pours in from open windows. In Slade's _dining room._ The family were never going to hear of this, if he had any say in it. 

Pain lances through his temple, sharp and insistent, as if to remind him of his failure. "What is this?" 

"You needed a time-out." Slade throws back. Sets his chin on his folded arms, leaning into his chair. 

He grits his teeth a little harder. He's not a _child._ He used to be. Stupidly. Thomas showed him exactly how much. Pennyworth paid for that. His childish, headstrong actions. 

He'd told him not to come. Begged Thomas to tell him that. And Damian hadn't listened. 

"Hungry?" Slade asks. Tilts his head. Still in the suit, though the mask is discarded entirely, his sword resting against the nearby table. They are, most likely, at his safehouse. For all he knows, he's not even in Gotham anymore. 

It's a horrible feeling, to know that nobody is looking for him. 

"No." Damian says. His stomach speaks for him, irritated by the lie. He frowns. "I will eat as soon as you _untie me."_

"Oh, like you untied me?" He asks, but doesn't even sound mad. Just amused. A flick of a smile across his face, quickly replaced by seriousness. "You want something to eat, or no? 'Cause I'm not untying you until you drop this." 

"How do you expect me to eat with my arms tied." He says, realisation dawning even as the words tumble out. "No." 

"Kid, I barely trust you with your pinkie untied. I'm not giving you a whole arm." Slade snorts. Rises from his seat and a little like a horror movie or a car crash, Damian sees in slow motion as his hand reaches out. 

Lands in his hair and gives it a ruffle. 

He'd done that, once before. It had driven him near _furious._ How low he's become, that he craves for it even a moment longer. The first touch that wasn't a hit or a kick in weeks. Brief and light, but it nearly does him in two, Damian's gums aching with how hard he clenches his jaw. 

He'd been kept up at night by that hair ruffle. Thought of it in blinding, angry moments. Had hated it, and wanted it again, and imprisoned Slade for it. For what it _meant._

He wanted it again, plain and simple. Not from Slade. From a different hand, in starched white gloves and— 

And his eyes sting something fierce, blood caked to his temple. His shoulders ache, wrenched back against the chair. Both hands going numb. In his boots his feet throb, knees bruised. 

Damian couldn't remember the last time he'd slept the whole night through. 

When Slade returns, it's with — of all things — a slice of buttered toast. Bland and quick, at least. He might have a concussion, if the strike was enough to knock him out, even if he couldn't quite feel it yet. 

"Don't try anything funny." Slade warns. Holds the toast out with his fingertips. "I mean it." 

"I'm not eating from your hands." He sneers. "Give me my hand." 

Slade's mouth thins, looking him over. "If you promise to be a real good boy." He grins at Damian's displeased glare, sharp as knives. "One wrong move, kid, and I'm gagging you when I tie you back up. Got it?" 

Briefly, he considers trying for an escape. But with only one hand freed and Slade not half a foot away, it's nearly hopeless. Better to conserve energy, even if it comes at the price of being _stuck here_ for longer. 

Either Slade will grow bored, and let him go. Or Damian will pay him back for the knock to the head. He doesn't bother considering the third option: someone will find him, take him home. They won't. 

He takes the offered slice of toast with a scowl, and eats it much like an angry animal, ripping off chunks with his teeth. He _is_ hungry, but he's gone longer without food, and toast hardly counts as nutritious. Not that Deathstroke would know a healthy meal if it bit him in the backside. 

On their little trip, the two of them disguised, it had been all diner food and cheap take-out. It had been the most sugar and saturated fat Damian had had in years, and given him a stomach ache in the early hours of the morning, Slade nothing more than amused. 

That entire trip, in fact, had seemed designed to make Damian nauseous. 

He still thought of it, sometimes. Thought, most of all, of his father's words, after. 

_"You are my son. No matter what games that bastard plays."_

How empty words could seem, when all he had was the memory of them. Hollow, distorted. Unreliable. He remembers his father's stern gaze, the hard edge when he spoke the words _my son._ A possession. A tool. 

And now he was rusted and broken, useless for all else except infection and disease. Made up of sharp, jagged pieces. 

He eats in silence, feels nauseous by the end of it, and grits his teeth when all Slade does is watch him. "What." 

"Just thinking." He replies lightly. Thumbs the corner of his chair idly, ankles crossed under it. "You seem like you've made your mind up." 

"I have." He asserts. Melted, salty butter coats his tongue, a little too oily for his tastes. It's not the brand Pennyworth buys. Bought. "There is no changing my mind." 

"Evidently. Or you wouldn't be tied up here, right?" Slade cocks his head. "You'd be out of some simple _ropes,_ at Bane's doorstep to deliver righteous vengeance, or whatever it is you bats do." A little flicker of a smile, bitter and cold. "Because I know that's what I'd be doing, if my mind was all made up. If I'd lost someone." 

"Just because I am—" 

"You're sitting here, eating fucking toast, _kid."_ He snaps. "Tell me again how ready you are to put that lunatic in the ground?" Leans into his chair with a grunt, expression severe. "Is this really what you want? Because if it is, get the _fuck_ out of my safehouse already, and get that bastard." 

Over the years, he's heard his father's booming voice, towering over him. Seen his grandfather in a blinding, spitting, green rage. He has _died_ and been there for all the repercussions. Felt his mother's nails in the soft, bruised skin of his cheek. 

The Damian of before could face them all down with a stiff, cold indifference. 

Now, he flinches, bound to his seat in the face of a man who has never particularly scared him. 

Slade scares others. And so far, all he's done is _irritate_ Damian. Kept to his convoluted, ambiguous code. Every strike is impersonal, no pleasure in the work when it comes to beating him. Maybe the others, Grayson especially. But not Damian. 

Dimly, he realises he _is_ scared, and Slade can damn well see it. 

"Well?" He prompts. Rocks back in his chair, his eye flicking over Damian's face in quick, sharp movements. 

He swallows. Tastes salt. Wrings his fingers against each other, silent for the longest time, not a single thought in his pounding head. Beyond Bane, there is nothing. Without that, there is _nothing._

No Damian, and no Robin. No warm, labyrinthine home, and little sandwiches cut into triangles. Peroxide and baking soda, to wash away all the blood, with a side of chamomile tea. Beyond Bane, there is nothing left, no reason to stay. 

"I can't—" And _oh,_ that's his voice, and he's never quite heard it like that. Hoarse and cracked, painful when it comes out, all that salt in his mouth. Not the warm notes of butter, but something far more human. 

Across from him, Slade's eye flicks away, to the corner of the room. To his folded arms, eyebrows tugged together. He sighs. "I'm gonna kick your Dad's ass." He mutters. 

He nearly laughs. A bitter whuff of noise through his nose. "You can try." Digs his nails into his palms, little bites of pain to will the tears away. 

He'd cried, before. With Thomas' gloved hand on his shoulder, a disgusting facsimile of a doting grandparent. The two of them looking on, Bane's hands still around— Sometimes, it feels like he never stopped. Damian ducks his head, wishes he could scrub at his face without being noticed, destroy the evidence. 

"I can't give this up." He grits out. Sounds thin even to his ears. _Weak._ "I can't." 

If he looks real close, if he closes his eyes. He can still see it. All the damn _time,_ neverending, always there. Living in the film of his retinas, the hollow memories, all the little corners that Pennyworth would inhabit.

Slade leans over, and slides from his chair entirely, orange boots silent on the linoleum. "Christ." He mutters. Plucks a hunting knife from it's sheath on his thigh. 

Damian inhales, exhales. Feels for all the world as numb as a dead limb. Doesn't bother looking when the mercenary disappears behind him, and doesn't particularly care when his other hand is smoothly cut free with a swipe of the blade. 

His fingertips are full of pins and needles, blood circulating again, a throbbing point of pain in his wrists. He flinches at the fingers that land in his hair again, resting there for a second, Damian's shoulders beginning a hike up to his ears. 

"Get up, kid. C'mon." He nudges Damian's head lightly, then promptly disappears, leaving the knife on the kitchen table. An offering, if he ever saw one. 

An out. An escape. Windows left open, and nothing but Damian and a room full of weapons. 

He stands on stiff knees. Lungs stuttered to a halt until he feels lightheaded — or that might be the concussion — and the room feeling— unreal. An escape, slinking out of the safehouse like a stray cat, cold and alone. Like the very best of killers, like Slade. 

He doesn't want to be like— 

Damian's hands tremble when he makes his way to the table. The knife, blade sharpened to a fine-point edge. He's seen this knife in action more than once. Quick, deadly. Slices through skin and armour like melted butter. 

He takes it blade-end, and doesn't think of _anything._ Wraps each gloved finger around the tempered steel. Thinks of white noise and starched, whisper-silent gloves. Of the absence in the Manor, and other empty places that Damian knows. 

Stands for what could be long minutes or only a few seconds. Hard to tell when there's cotton in his head, a dull edge to the world. When he can feel his gloves slice and give way, nicking the skin only slightly. 

Red beads to the top, over his callused fingers and his palm. Blood. He's spilled so much of it over the years, a little more seems unimportant. 

Damian inhales. Drops the knife with a clatter, the edge catching the sunlight, tinged pink. Curls his hand into a tight fist, and then puts it into his other hand, a sharp breath exhaling between his teeth.

He feels— at all ends. A firework in all directions. Bullets sprayed into a crowd, no real target in sight. He feels like he's _exploding,_ and he doesn't have a clue how to stop it. Doing things he shouldn't, and not caring enough to stop. Thinking of white noise and giving a little more blood. 

Pennyworth would be horrified. He would, also, know just what to say to bring Damian back into himself. To put all that explosive powder back into its container, lid firmly on. One familiar hand on his shoulder, carding through his hair. A game of chess, his father pretending he _isn't_ watching from his armchair. A kind word. 

That's all he wants, in the end. Not much. 

And Bane took that from him. It's only fair, to take all from him. 

His hands are still shaking when he follows where Slade went, down a quiet hallway, into a lounge. Two orange boots kicked up on the coffee table, a bottle of beer on a coaster. The television, garishly large, with a nature documentary turned low. 

Slade doesn't even look at him when he enters, simply turns the volume up a little. Leans forward with a grunt to grab his beer. 

"What is this." 

"My day off?" 

"No." He growls. _"This._ All of this." The television is large enough he barely blocks a quarter of it when he stomps into Slade's line of sight. A pair of otters on screen, splashing in water. Slade leans around him. "What are you trying to achieve? Because it will _not_ work." 

"I'm sure." He drawls, infuriating. 

"I am not one of your—"Damian grits his teeth. Almost thinks better of his words, and then remembers the flinch, the _hurt_ that Slade had lanced through him. "I am not one of your children, to be parented when you feel like it." 

"I sure hope not." Slade deadpans. "My kids wouldn't be stupid enough to do this." 

He snarls. Wishes he still had that knife. Take out Slade's other eye and— Inhales sharply. The room feels so unreal, pulsing with every breath, so distant and so close all at once. He's not thinking right, he knows that. Can't stop it any more than he can bring himself to leave. 

Slade looks back at him, unaffected, while Damian fucking _burns._

"You gonna sit down or what?" 

He grinds his teeth, jaw aching. Takes the seat furthest from Slade, because there is not much else to do. 

In all but spirit, he knows it's pointless. He knows he's given up. He's just a fire, spitting embers in all directions, burning the house down. He wishes he could go back to being cold. Slade turns the volume up, crosses his feet over each other with a grunt. 

The otters fight and play, and tend to their young, and Damian doesn't hear a word of the narration. Fluffy little creatures feel so far from the world he lives in now. Even Titus seems… meaner. More teeth in his mouth than when Damian last looked. 

He keeps searching for Pennyworth. 

Damian doesn't have the heart to stop him. 

They make it through most of the documentary in silence, Slade sipping his beer and sunlight pouring in from the windows, warming Damian's skin. He picks at the dirt under his nails, reopens the thin scabs over his palm, fresh blood smearing over his skin. 

"Stop that." Slade murmurs. When his palm is pink and there is more blood than dirt beneath his nails. He can barely _feel_ it. 

"Why." 

"There're better ways to fuck yourself up. If that's what you wanted." He hums. "But I don't think it is." 

"You seem to think you _know_ me, Wilson." 

"Know you good enough, kid." He says, simple as that. And Damian does stop. Tucks his hands under his thighs, boots digging mud into the leather couch where he's crossed his legs. "And I know this isn't you." 

"Last I checked—" 

"Oh, shut it." Slade huffs. Sips his beer, throat bobbing. "You had your chance. Let's both stop pretending you're still here because you want that contract." He slides a gaze his way, heavy and serious. "We both know that ain't it." 

He works his jaw silently, avoiding that stare, sharp like a blade. Lets the room fall into quiet again, the television the only noise, a drone in his skull. Quiet, he picks dried blood from his temple, the strands of his hair. The spot is tender, swollen, skin split a little. 

His hands shake. Won't stop shaking, in fact. He digs them into his skin, as if that would help, and then slides them over his eyes, teeth aching. Trembles run through him, turning every breath into hitches and tremors.

"Kid," Slade murmurs, soft, and _that_ is _enough._

Damian makes a noise, and then another, and after that he can't stop. His eyes feel molten hot, spilling over, burning tracks down his cheeks. Covers his face with one shaking hand and heaves in breaths that make him nauseous. 

He feels distant. Separate. Watching someone else fall into sobs. Some other child breaking apart at the seams with every animal, pained noise in their throat. Some other person being tugged closer, onto their side, head in Slade's lap. 

Blood smeared on a forehead he can't feel. Sweat in hair that Slade runs bare hands through, silent but _there._ More than anyone else has given him in weeks. Damian's lungs burn, hacking up coughs and tears. 

Stays like that until it feels like there's nothing left in him to give. Until the touch of Slade's fingers blends into one another, never quite stopping. 

"Ask me again in a month," Slade murmurs. Runs his fingers through Damian's hair, tracing the curve of his ear, avoiding the swollen wound. "Can stay here if you want, or don't." He tugs on a lock of hair. _"Bet_ you'll have changed your tune by then." 

He swallows thickly, a mouthful of salt and saliva. "How much." Even to his own ears, his voice is watery, _weak._ He doesn't care. Above him, Slade hums, curling a piece of hair around his finger. 

"Couple million?" 

Of all things, that sounds like the mercenary he knows. "You get paid either way, then." His face is hot and sticky, tender when he scrubs at it, tears still stubbornly trickling over the bridge of his nose. Soaking into the material of Slade's suit. 

"That I do." He replies, voice low. And then resumes his light touches. Has no clue how novel the sensation is, someone else's hands on him. A warm, solid body to lean into, even if it isn't the one he wants. 

Damian scrunches his eyes until he sees colors pop behind his lids, exhausted. Hollow and empty. Wishing he'd stayed on Gotham National Bank, swaying in the wind. Wishes he'd never returned to Gotham. 

"Okay." He mumbles. If he can't take back his mistake, and he can't go back to that ledge on the bank. This'll have to do. Damian thinks of white noise and tells himself it's some other child, curled up on his side, experiencing some other pain. 

**Author's Note:**

> :3


End file.
